


simplify / complicate

by thisishardcore



Category: Columbine - Fandom, Historical Criminals RPF, True Crime - Fandom
Genre: Blood and Gore, Corpse Desecration, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Masturbation, Mutilation, Necrophilia, Rape/Non-con Elements, dubious scientific accuracy, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:40:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28113300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisishardcore/pseuds/thisishardcore
Summary: You cup his cheek, something you could never bring yourself to do when there was blood rushing underneath it. All of Dylan's blood is sitting split between two one-gallon jugs. It was the wall between the two of you, you realized, the passive rushing of blood through the entirety of his body. The oxygen in his brain, the saliva in his mouth, all the byproducts of living. Once you removed all of that, it was simple. Touching Dylan has never felt so easy.
Relationships: Eric Harris/Dylan Klebold
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	simplify / complicate

**Author's Note:**

> hey, you clicked on it. 
> 
> not to implicate anyone in my rotted brain cells, but thanks to dahhhmer for listening to and answering my sporadic questions about rigor mortis and decomposition <3 not saying any of this is accurate, but i made some kinda attempt. 
> 
> mostly unedited and definitely unbeta'd. i can't look directly at it.

His elbows are poking out all wrong. His limbs were always so gangly, and he never managed any sort of grace in them. That's okay, you think, he doesn't have to think about how to move them now. He doesn't have to feel uncomfortable in his skin if it belongs to you, if you've primed and preserved it. And he doesn't have to be shy about any part of himself. The discoloring of his skin is such a small detail when he's like this, sitting in front of you.

You two are in your basement, parents not home, neighborhood on high alert. It's only a matter of time before they find you, and knowing that twists anxiety through you. Not enough to stop you but enough to take notice.

You don't look at his eyes. You imagine his lips moving until you swear you can see them twitch. You run your thumb over the skin. It's colder and smoother than it would be if it was living tissue, you covered all the pits he bit into them, kept him cold until you worked up enough courage to face him. Some small part of your heart misses them, the flaws. Another part feels like you've helped him transcend, truly evolve. You two were always meant to be something more than this. 

You cup his cheek, something you could never bring yourself to do when there was blood rushing underneath it. All of Dylan's blood is sitting split between two one-gallon jugs. It was the wall between the two of you, you realized, the passive rushing of blood through the entirety of his body. The oxygen in his brain, the saliva in his mouth, all the byproducts of living. Once you removed all of that, it was simple. Touching Dylan has never felt so easy. 

You don't kiss him.

You take his shirt off first. It's the least terrifying option. The skin there is just as ugly, yellow-green, and puckered like it's outgrown him. You lean down and place a kiss on his collarbone. You want to bite it, peel it back, expose the muscle. But you wanna take your time. You tilt up, mouth on his neck, hands on his thighs, and his head rolls to the side, stretching the skin. You lift a hand to cradle his head. 

You're not able to leave the marks you want, not really. You bite down, leave your teeth there instead, but don't break the skin. Patience is a virtue and you've cultivated plenty of it. You've watched Dylan for years, his profile as he drove you both to school, while he took a test. The smile he got when you did something badass together. The self-conscious shifting of his hands from pockets, to crossed, to fumbling with his cap. The heated pace he took when something really pissed him off. You know him and the way he looks well enough to recreate his expressions in your head without looking at him. You know the small flares of his body heat well enough to imagine them. You can be patient for a little while longer, try and savor anything at all.

You never needed him alive. You needed his eyes shut, his mind blank, unable to carry the memory anywhere, unable to transform you in his eyes. 

You run your hands over his chest, the scar you drew bloating in weird ways around the stitches. There's something so intimate about the feeling of it under your touch, and something so disgusting wrapped around it. You can be disgusting here, though. You can be repetitive and tedious, can dress him and strip him as many times as you want. His eyes are closed. 

You undo his pants next, these baggy jeans that are too big and too short at the same time. It takes a bit of maneuvering to not let him drop to the floor, a bit of letting his body lean against yours, his head falling into the slope of your shoulder. But he's out of them, in his boxers. A light blue, thin cotton. They're loose around his thighs; you can slip your hand under the hem of the fabric and you do. Just the fingertips, the smallest area of skin-to-skin. 

You're not a very patient person. In your most honest nature, you rip and tear everything you sink your teeth into. Everything you learn circles around to destruction, self or otherwise. You know this is ultimately what did Dylan in. There's little point in being slow now. 

You dig your nails in first. The skin is soft. You're tearing into his before you can stop yourself. There's no blood, so it's all flesh, nothing to get in the way. Past fat, past muscle, past tendons, and intact vessels, straight to bone. Your fingers feel sticky, your stomach churns at the same pace as the blood reaching your cock. 

You pull him down to the ground, onto his back, taking extra care with his head, his now mangled leg. You want to rip him to pieces, pick his skeleton clean, pack all his flesh in plastic bags and dump them in the ocean. That's the remedy, you think. That's the cure. Your brain will stop lighting itself on fire and you'll stop thinking about him. 

For a moment, as you look down at him, Dylan becomes exactly what he is, a rotting thing. A collection of discontinued tissue. He's so ugly for that small second, you almost split apart from yourself. You know this boy, you don't know this body. Swelling in odd places, caving in others. And his face-- you hadn't looked at it. It's ghoulish and sunken. He looks like a painting or a high-res shock image from best gore dot com. Nothing human, nothing divine, nothing with a soul. 

There's something you keep returning to, something your brain keeps catching on-- the smallest feeling that you've ever noticed, a bump in your emotional state. This is your friend. You have destroyed him. Everyone will find out eventually. 

And then the moment passes, and his skin is just skin, his face blurred and empty. He is back to being a vessel, and you are back to wanting to fill it. 

You pull his boxers off in one strong tug, and then you stand over him. There's a heat in our muscles, in your head, something clawing and scratching. You feel like your eyes are turning to stone, your legs to lead. He's all in front of you, everything he could ever hide. 

You think about opening his mouth, pushing your cock past his teeth and dry tongue, to the soft tissue of his throat. No gag reflex. No protests. You think about sucking his cock instead. You think about trying to fit inside him, studying how the remnants of rigor mortis affect the less thought of muscle groups. 

You unbutton, unzip, wrap your hand around your cock like you're used to. Everyone would find out-- if you left any DNA in him, everyone would find out. They'd publish the headline all over the country, right next to your face, and everyone would see you as some sort of pervert. This way, at least, no one would know. 

You stand right above his mouth, feet placed on either side of his head, and you imagine, instead of the impossibly grotesque expression in front of you, a lively, eager Dylan, mouth open, tongue out. He would never, you know, he would never look up at you like that. He'd kill you himself before you got your dick anywhere near him, but the thought gets you hard anyway. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, bite your lip. Maybe it's ironic that the image making you come is of Dylan willing, staring up at you with puppy-dog eyes, flushed cheeks. Maybe it should sting of regret more than arousal.

You catch yourself in your free hand, panting. The scene under you is just as ghastly as it was before, but you manage to fold onto your knees beside him and press your lips to his forehead. 


End file.
